Maze of Dusty Dreams
by SpellCleaver
Summary: When Aelin and her court go looking for the hellfire in the canon scene in the bone catacombs in Queen of Shadows, they get attacked by the Valg, who trap them in dreams of their darkest fears... and desires. But what are our protagonists hiding? Short Story AU
1. Bones & Catacombs & Hellfire

**So, I came up with this idea, and I decided to run with it. If anyone's read The Forbidden Game series by LJ Smith, or The Paper Magician by Charlie N. Holmberg, then the concept's similar to that: facing your worst fears and desires. It'll be only a short story, ten chapters at most.**

 **This chapter's not as long as the others will be, it's just a good place to end it.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own TOG, it belongs to the wonderful Sarah J. Maas.**

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It hit when they least expected it. Aelin was dressed in her beloved leather suit, a coil of satisfaction writhing in her gut every time she remembered that the man who'd gifted it to her was dead. Nesryn had escorted Lysandra back to the apartment, where she was now lying low back at the warehouse apartment with Evangeline, claiming that Clarisse was so enraged by her miniscule inheritance that she was on a rampage, finding an excuse to take out her anger on any courtesan who remained in the brothel at that point. The green eyed woman had smugly informed Aelin that her mistress hadn't been this angry since she'd learned that Archer Finn had been gutted before he had the chance to pay off his debts to her. Both woman found it incredibly amusing that on both occasions it was Aelin's actions - directly or indirectly - that had driven her to such rage.

Aedion was more than a little pissed when Aelin had sprung on him and Rowan that they needed to go down into the sewers, because apparently they needed to clamber down into the layers and layers of filth Rifthold had left on the waterworks, to find some sort of supply that would help them blow that infernal clock tower to kingdom come. And them she could go about burning that gods-damned glass castle to the ground. For the and Dorian had been; for Kaltain; for Nehemia, who had hated it so much.

And it was both Rowan and Aedion who were pissed when Aelin had gone poking in the old opium dealer's shop, then come across what looked like a perfectly normal passage to the sewers with a seemingly normal sewer grate in the floor of the passageway, were it not for the alien smell radiating from it, torn it out of the ground, swung her legs in, and jumped. _Especially_ after they'd seen themselves evidence that proved the Valg had patrolled the passage above not too long ago - after the Shadow Market had been burned. The bodies had made even Aelin - a weapon forged and honed by Death - cringe.

All in all, she did not have a happy court. Even Chaol looked at her with a slight distaste.

But the rest of them were too enraptured with the chamber to complain any further. The Shadow Market was rumoured to have been built on the bones of the God of Truth, whoever he may be, and every one of the bones set in the walls, the ceiling, and the floor were engraved with confessions from truly horrible people. Aelin blanched as she looked at some of them. The self-loathing that oozed from the inscriptions was almost enough to combat her own.

"What _is_ this place?" Aedion breathed, stepping up to let his hand run along the surface. However, he stopped halfway, and his hand just hovered there, like he was afraid to even touch the bones, lest some of that evil rubbed off on him. "The writing. . . I don't think these were nice people."

Chaol held his lantern up and squinted at the wall. "'I am a liar. I am a thief. I took my sister's husband and laughed whilst I did it.'" He paused, then lowered the torch to turn to the others. His copper eyes were wide. "No." He croaked. "They really weren't." His gaze moved to Aelin, and for once there was no contempt there. Only fear. "This is a bad place."

Aedion's face was grave, but his brows were furrowed in calculation - ever the assessing general. Aelin could practically see the train of thought his mind was taking: how much he loathed not knowing all the facts sooner, that this was a stab in the dark, how this place could easily collapse around them. She could almost see through his perfectly practiced façade to where he was cringing at the risk she'd thrown herself into.

But he merely said, "Then let's find this hellfire supply and get out."

The other three nodded their affirmation. Even Rowan, surprisingly enough, put aside the Fae territorial bullshit for long enough to acknowledge that Aedion's plan was sound. They breathed a collective sigh.

"We need to be quick," Aelin breathed as she scanned the floor, the ceiling, the walls. "Really damn quick. Aedion, you take that wall; Chaol, the centre; Rowan, the right. I'll grab the back. Careful where you wave the torches." Not even the gods could help them if they accidentally ignited a hidden batch of hellfire.

Aelin took one step towards her assigned area. then another. Then another. Then she was standing on the bone floor. It seemed to suck her down, like she bones in her feet were being attracted to their bejewelled counterparts. She suppressed a shudder. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. She would not be afraid.

The distant crunching told her the others had followed her instructions.

"This was a temple," Rowan observed, studying the walls. He wore indifference well, but she could tell he was just as unsettled as she was. "Not just ordinary catacombs."

A pause, then Aelin said, "The Shadow Market was said to be built on the bones of the God of Truth."

"Well then it seems like this God of Truth was more of a Sin-Eater than anything, then," Aedion called. "There are some really horrible things written here. Be careful. This place. . . it reeks of death. Of Hellas' realm."

"Death is my dominion," she uttered ominously as she strode off into the darkness. The echoes of her leather boots on stone clanged painfully against her ears. "And there's already a place in Hellas' realm for me."

She was gone before Aedion even had the chance to protest her words.

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 **What did you think? Should I continue? Review?!**


	2. Generals & Cousins & Killers

**I'm glad people seem to like this. The idea was originally written as a Halloween oneshot, but I like it better this way.**

 **Disclaimer: As much as I wish I owned Throne of Glass, I don't. This miracle belongs to Sarah J. Maas.**

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The temple was seemingly endless, with the gruesome bone mosaics never faltering no matter how far they stretched. They distorted the echoes as Aedion walked, like there was someone behind him whose footsteps fell half a beat after his own. He suppressed a shudder.

After a while, the smell of the catacombs changed from dank and damp to something. . . darker. It was there, lurking just behind him, it felt like. Though he knew that there was a good chance it was just his imagination, he turned, and slowly held out his torch, painfully mindful of where he put it, lest he accidentally ignite the hellfire and bring these entire catacombs down on their heads.

The darkness in front of him and behind him seemed to be a solid thing. He squinted, but not even his enhanced Fae vision could penetrate the expanse of black. His heart rate increased with fear that was completely and utterly irrational; nevertheless, he started counting his breaths to calm his pulse again. If he did end up getting into a fight, an erratic heart beat would just cause him to lose his blood faster. Too fast for his quickened Fae healing to handle.

"Hello?" He called uncertainly. Now it wasn't the echoes that bothered him; it was the lack of them. The darkness swallowed his call like water being absorbed by a cloth. He stop moving for a moment to listen. The silence only grew around him, once the sound of his footsteps ceased. It hadn't been that long since he'd left Aelin and Rowan behind, had it? Surely he should surely still be able to hear them? Surely they should still be able to hear _him_?

Then that scent. That all too familiar stench of death and decay. The scent that had emanated from Dorian whenever the demon ensconced in him had decided to take a trip down into the dungeons and taunt Aedion. The stench of the Valg.

Aedion's racing heartbeat stilled, like the cold finger of Hellas himself had prodded it and it froze like a terrified animal. Then came the grinding rasp of a voice.

"You and your Queen and your court really shouldn't have come down here today, _General_." The title was mocking. "We were here first. And we are in need of new prey."

He barely dared to turn around, even as he felt a spear of darkness get shoved through his shoulder blades to touch his heart. "Interesting," came the voice. "Such pain and heartbreak. Such _emotion_." The word was spat with ill disguised contempt. "I wonder whether your fear will taste even more delicious than Aelin Fire-Bringer's did to my brethren."

The words snapped something in him, and he bellowed a roar that was instantly swallowed by the darkness that surrounded him - caged him. He whirled into a striking stance, and slashed the Sword of Orynth in an arc ready to send the demon's head rolling.

But it was not a demon that stood behind him.

It was his mother.

That face. The one that had been blurred by the tears in his eyes when he last saw it, but was now crystal clear and sharp in a way that it had never been seen as through his five year old eyes. Aedion knew, deep down, that the demon had given it extra clarity by superimposing over his memory the image of her relatives' faces. Evalin's face. Aelin's face. His face.

Yes; it was a precise copy of the face of Evalin Ashryver. And Aedion watched in horror as his sword arm, with sword in hand, slashed down and connected with her chest. Blood poured out like a waterfall that ran red, as the loving smile she wore dropped and her eyes became shadowed, looking at him with perhaps hate and disappointment shining out of her eyes. Evalin's eyes. Aelin's eyes. His eyes. Her cheeks, still speckled with blood, began to deteriorate, until she stood there in rags with nothing but wrinkled pale skin covered her bones. Her hair shrivelled until it resembled more hay than her classic honey shade.

She looked like she had when she'd died. After the illness had ravaged her.

She opened her mouth, and though he knew it was a demon speaking with his mother's voice, her words hurt all the same.

"You killed me," she intoned. "You're the reason I'm dead. You killed your own mother, Aedion _Ashryver._ " She snarled his last name, like she loathed the fact he'd been born a prince. "You're no better than your father, with all you people you've killed. Perhaps you'll become a murderer too, like father, like son. Perhaps you'll even find as ruthless a ruler as Maeve to serve, once your precious Aelin is gone."

He shook his head. His vision tunnelled until she towered above him, and it was like he was five years old all over again. "No," he protested hoarsely. "No. It wasn't me. It was the illness that killed you."

"You tell yourself that," she responded taking a step towards him. He backed away, but the darkness formed a wall, and he could not pass through it. "And yet she could have been cured. Her friends and relatives begged her to accept the assistance of Fae healers, but she refused. She died out of fear that Maeve would find out you existed, and lay claim to you through your father's blood oath. _She died because of you_."

Then she changed again. Her hollowed flesh became whole and full, her cheekbones were altered ever so slightly, her hair grew out more and looked more healthy, and her gold skin began to glow again. Until Aedion was looking at an image of Evalin Ashryver.

Kind, sweet Evalin Ashryver, who'd never let him feel unloved, who'd taught him how to wage wars with his words just as well as his sword, who'd been a mother to him when his own was dead and gone, even though she'd been grieving just as much as him.

"You were sent to our country to help protect my daughter." Evalin said, and her turquoise eyes flared with betrayal. "You were given the honour of a blood oath to the Heir of Terrasen, to serve in her court. We raised you, when we could have thrown you aside. You, a Wendlyn Prince with no family, no magic, no lands, no one who would have cared whether you lived or died." She took another step closer, and how tall she stood made Aedion feel how he had felt thirteen again, when he was receiving the news about Aelin's death: young and foolish and completely and utterly useless.

"We gave you _everything_ , and then you killed our people, and served the man who killed us. _Adarlan's Whore_. You are a traitor, and if you think the people in Terrasen will want you back after this - if you think _my daughter_ will want you back after this - you are sorely mistaken."

He blinked to try to stop the tears from falling, and then the image morphed into Aelin. Her visage flickered like the light of her flames: sometimes the nine year old princess he'd loved, sometimes the nineteen year old assassin he'd only just met.

"You were meant to protect me." She said, and the anger in her eyes was almost worse than it was in the eyes of her mother and her aunt. Aelin of the Wildfire, eyes sparking in fury. "You were meant to protect me. You _promised_ you would. And then you go and serve our enemy." She took a step back, and that was almost worse than when the other two had taken a step forward. The disgust in her face was too much to bear. "Why do you think I don't tell you anything?"

"Aelin," he croaked.

"How can I tell you my plans, Aedion, if I can't trust you to do as simple a thing as protect me? How can I know you won't go running off back to your master the moment everything gets rough? Adarlan's Whore. You are _nothing_. I'm glad I gave the blood oath to Rowan."

"Aelin, I-"

But she was gone, and so was the darkness.

He looked around, but he wasn't in the catacombs. He was in the training room in the castle back in Orynth. He was facing a training dummy with the Sword of Orynth in his hand- No, he realised, looking down. Not the Sword of Orynth. Just a plain, unadorned sabre.

The door creaked open, and he turned to see Quinn, the captain of the guard, rush in, brown eyes wide. He put down the sword, and felt his heart thud with remembered dread as Quinn said, "King Orlon was assassinated."

And then he was riding through the night, the cold wind blowing down from the Staghorn's biting at his exposed hands but he murmured to himself, " _Hurry, hurry, hurry_." They thundered over a bridge: the bridge that Aedion later learned Aelin had drifted under as she struggled in the icy river.

Then he was passing the corpse of Lady Marion, and wanting to throw up, then stepping into the bedroom, Rhoe and Evalin's bedroom, and was shuddering as he took in their mangled bodies in the bed, and so much blood that the bed was black with it.

More images came. Of the war camps, and that time he'd first killed another boy in combat under the overseer's sadistic gaze, and then the time only a few months ago where he was thanking the King of Adarlan for the massacres in Endovier and Calaculla, thanking the man who had _murdered_ his people. Then when he'd first seen Aelin at the Prince's birthday celebrations, and she was facing off against Dorian, and saying " _give me a sign that you're in there"_ , but this time she waited too long and he'd shoved a collar on her. And there was Lysandra getting executed for her gift, and Rowan being hunted like his brethren had ten years ago, and there were more images but he didn't see them as he fell to his knees and vomited.

"So weak," the voice hissed. Aedion looked up through blurry eyes to see the thing. It's face had the moonlight white skin of any of its kind, and the unnatural beauty too. Its eyes were green, but shadowed with something darker. It wasn't a collar it wore, but a chunky obsidian ring. "So _worthless._ "

Then it screamed, as a familiar gold sword slashed a fiery path across its neck.

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 **What did you think of Aedion's fears? What do you think the other characters' fears will be?**

 **Review?**


	3. Oath Breakers & Traitors & Liars

Chaol's torch sputtered, then went out.

He swallowed his nervousness, and gritted his teeth. The passage ahead was dark and cold - much more so than it had been when he was with the others. And the walls. . . He resisted the urge to touch them, as he had an instinct to do, due to that precise instinct. It was something otherworldly, something that did not belong in his city, no matter how far buried it was.

It felt like the clock tower, with the eight gargoyles on top.

As he kept walking - cautiously, slowly; he wasn't a fool - he debated his decision on telling Aelin how to bring magic back. He'd heard the stories of what she'd done to General Narrok's army in Wendlyn; he'd seen her cleave the earth in two protecting him and Fleetfoot from that. . . _thing_ , in the alternate realm. What if she lost control of that fathomless flame and burned his capital to nothing but ashes and dust? Or worse, what if she did it _voluntarily,_ decided that the city was no more than a den of debauchery and sin, and that it and its inhabitants deserved to burn?

Would she let him live, or what she torch him as well, for what had happened to Nehemia on his watch?

He swallowed again, then stopped walking suddenly. His breathing became very light, and he clutched the pommel of his sword, hardly daring to move.

There was something in the dark with him.

Something that did not feel friendly.

"Such fools," hissed a voice, and it was a voice that was dry and cracked from disuse, like it had remained unused since it was created at the dawn of time. It was a voice that sent shudders quaking up and down Chaol's spine, until he didn't want to turn around and behold whatever ghastly creature was capable of making such a noise. "Such fools to choose to wander down here today, to wander down here at all. And to split up whist doing it?" It chuckled, and it sounded like the dagger he'd scraped against the marble floor of the library so log ago to see just how jumpy Aelin - no, she'd been Celaena then - was. Only this time, he understood the level of fear she might have been feeling.

The voice came again, only this time it was softer, more of a smooth lull. It seemed to wrap around his mind and gently reel him in, like a fish on a hook.

"It would be a mercy," the voice purred. "To kill you now. Because if this is the best court that Aelin Galathynius can rally, then she will suffer dearly by the time this war is over." He jumped as he felt one cold finger - a _man's_ finger - trail down the back of his neck in a cold parody of a caress. "I wonder what your agony will taste like, as I suck you dry," it mused and Chaol had had enough. He tried to move, to fight, to do _anything,_ but the Valg creature instantly caught him in its thrall, and he was frozen.

He scrunched his eyes tight in a child's fantasy: that it was a dream, and everything would be okay, if only he could wake up.

He opened his eyes, but it was the safety of his chambers in the castle that he saw. Nor was it his bedroll in the sewer chamber that the rebels had staked a hideout in that awaited his sight as he looked.

It was Dorian and Aelin, standing on one of the bridges that spanned the glass castle.

Aelin stood there, shoulder to shoulder with his King, feet planted on the ground, and did not look afraid. So this wasn't a precise reflection of reality then, if Aelin was perfectly at ease on the glass, which she had once refused to venture out onto.

Her turquoise eyes sparked with some anger that he'd beheld in her eyes the night Nehemia died: an anger so profound it was barely there at all. She took a step forward, with that inherent predatory grace there was to all her movements, one that always made him want to turn tail and flee like a frightened animal. "Oath breaker." She spat. The three syllables of the title snapped audibly, like the crack of a whip.

Dorian was next, the black collar around his neck an incriminating sign. _You did this. It's your fault. Coward_. He met Chaol's gaze with the same sapphire eyes he always had - the eyes that dated back in the Havilliard bloodline right to the first king, Gavin. But they were shadowed with something else, and darkness stirred in them like the cruel, emotionless creature that was currently residing in his king's body. He purred, as though the word tasted delicious on his tongue, "Traitor."

And then Aelin - no; this was Celaena. Was it? - stepped forward again. It was a tiny step, a slight move of her booted foot, but it still shocked Chaol into backing away as well. It was pointless. She was somehow standing so close to him, close enough that she could reach out and touch him with her hand - that hand that dripped blood. He couldn't tell if it was hers - or her victim's.

She was wearing the suit she'd always worn when she was the King's Champion, he noted. The one she always wore when she'd stalked into the throne room and thrown a half-rotted head at the King of Adarlan's feet.

It had always turned his stomach.

And now Celaena lifted her hand, stained scarlet, and he noticed that her fingers were dotted with rings: the seal rings she'd always stolen from the lords and royals she'd been ordered to assassinate. He swallowed, and despite the fresh blood, her hand was cold and clammy like a dead woman's as she caressed his cheek with a fondness that he missed fiercely.

He almost laughed. He'd always been frantic whenever she left, dreading her death. Of course this was what the Valg would show him.

Her thumb, which had been rubbing small circles on his jaw, froze. She retracted the hand, and narrowed her eyes at him, until the turquoise was gone, and only the gold remained. The gold of Mala's heir, extracting justice. _"Liar,"_ she hissed finally. her hand came up in a white flash, and his head snapped to the side in a flinch as he felt her nails rake across his cheek. Flood flowed down the side of his face, and a single line burned, right along the scar.

"Stop!" He cried hoarsely, and lifted his hands to shove Celaena by the shoulders. She tumbled back and tripped over her own feet until she was sprawled over the floor. He barely had time to wonder why her flawless sense of balance was out, before bars snapped into place between them, and the ground solidified into the floor of a cell, and her eyes were looking at him with a terrifying emptiness. It was a perfect replication of the night Nehemia had died, and everything had gone to shit.

Unable to bear it anymore he squeezed his eyes shut and yanked his head away from where he was fixated on the sight. He turned his attention to Dorian.

But what he saw there wasn't any better.

Dorian was kneeling again, and he was begging, crying. Unintelligible words spilled out of his mouth, and tears spilled out of his eyes, and then he released the most gut wrenching scream - the likes of which Chaol had not heard since Sorscha had died.

"You did this," Dorian said suddenly, still not facing him. Chaol couldn't see his friend's face, but he watched as his shoulders didn't seize their shaking. He could faintly hear Dorian mutter, "Sorscha, Sorscha, Sorscha," but the voice that overrode the sobs was clear and hate driven. "You did this. If you'd only stayed, if only you hadn't run, like those _cowards_ you've always condemned, _she might still be alive_." Dorian rose, and turned to face him. Out of the corner of his eye, Chaol saw Celaena rise in sync with him. "If you hadn't run, I might still be here."

"Oath breaker," Celaena repeated. "You told me you loved me. Did you lie? Can something as worthless as your love be broken so easily?"

His heart stuttered. "Celaena-"

" _My name is Aelin_." She seethed. "This is who I am, Chaol. Do you not love me? Or did you give away those words like they were nothing? I have always been Aelin. Were you too blind to see? You cannot pick and choose which parts of us to love." Dorian was nodding along. "Our magic is a part of us. So what's your decision, _Captain_?" She sneered. "Is the talent that could win the war repulsive enough to drive you away, like the traitor you are?"

"You left me," Dorian said. "Fifteen years of friendship, Chaol. Did it all mean nothing to you? You swore that your loyalty was to me. You swore you wouldn't abandon me." Chaol flinched at every word. "And then you turn tail and run, like a traitor, like a coward, leaving Sorscha and I to work out how to _survive_. Did you care so little about me?"

"We're done, Captain," the chorused in unison. "What is your loyalty worth? You gave up everything for a person you'd already betrayed. You broke your oath to become the Lord of Anielle. All you do is lie, out of blind loyalty, out of submission. Your father wants you because you are a warrior, like him. But you have your mother's spirit." They leaned forward, these magical, unbelievably powerful kings and queens passing eternal judgement on him, and damning him for it. "You are weak, Chaol Westfall. If you cannot keep something as simple as your word, how can we trust you to help us keep a continent?"

Chaol's knees buckled beneath him and he hit the ground on all fours. The bone mosaics dug into his hands and he almost retched at the death beneath his hands, his very being trying to recoil from it.

"I. Am. Not. Weak." He said slowly to himself. Tears blurred his vision. "I. Am. Not. Worthless." He looked up to fling the words at dream-Celaena and dream-Dorian, but when he looked up, they weren't there.

Instead there was Aelin, holding Goldryn out, black blood splattered on his face, lips curled into a feral snarl, and Rowan, standing next to her.

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 **Chaol was a bit harder to write than Aedion, but I think I did alright.**

 **I've made a Community on the best Throne of Glass fanfics, btw. If anyone has any suggestions, or would like to be added in as a staff, PM me, or say so in the reviews. Follows are always appreciated!**

 **What did you think? Review?**


	4. Hawks & Flowers & Flames

**I'm back! Sorry for the wait. Blame a mix of homework, and the fact that I finally got round to reading ACOTAR and ACOMAF, and have been in a book slump ever since. I'm still not out of it, but I mustered up the will to write this for you wonderful people.**

 **Warning: Empire of Storms spoilers below, just because it fitted in remarkably well. Also, I know that Lorcan doesn't attack Aelin until after this, but the scene is written as what Rowan might distantly fear might happen, which is why it goes differently to how it did in the book.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't, and never will, own Throne of Glass. I am purely doing this for your and my amusement, and to improve my writing. It belongs to SJM.**

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Rowan cursed to himself long before the demon crept up on him.

If he'd had his powers in full capacity, he would have sensed that creeping darkness long before it tickled his peripheral vision, an intangible annoyance when he looked straight ahead, non-existent when he deigned to study it.

But he didn't, and he wouldn't, until they uncovered that stash of hellfire and blew that gods-damned clock tower to kingdom come. Maybe lumps of obsidian would wind up in Wendlyn, where Maeve would no doubt know what it was, and take the opportunity to study it, and work out how to use the knowledge to her advantage.

He didn't care. He _didn't care_ , so long as whatever horrors she made out of it stayed far from the shores of Erilea, and Terrasen. And Aelin.

But for now, they needed that hellfire. Rowan shuddered as he recalled the last time he'd seen it used. He and his cadre had been laying siege to some distant city - the name of the city, and even the land it was capital of, eluded him - when one of the last few living defenders had concocted the brew and taken out half of their Fae army, as well as a sizable chunk of his own. He hadn't been even a trained, common soldier, but an opium dealer like the one whose stock they were looting, who had decided that the best thing he could do to protect his city was an action he would die undertaking.

Rowan hadn't been exaggerating earlier when he said that hellfire could melt bones. He blinked, and despite all his training himself to be heartless and cold, the image of that man's body being blown to pieces, the liquidised bones and bone marrow splattering on his hawk's wings like jam and cream. . . Bile lurched to his throat.

He'd said as much. He hadn't needed to say more, because he knew that Aelin understood the risks, had weighed them out with considerable thought, and deemed them worth it, even if her flippant _"Good. So we know it works then,"_ said otherwise.

He'd felt that rush of wind again - so cold, malignant; so unlike his own - and froze.

The darkness that had been stalking him like a second shadow wrapping round him then, its malicious and vile touch raising goose bumps on his arm. He snarled softly, his elongated canines on full display, and whirled to face the demon. His hand flew to the weapons he'd sheathed to his waist, and even with his Fae hearing and instincts, he hated his vulnerability. Without his magic, that crushing power that had levelled cities and won battles and blown armadas to splinters, he felt as weak and exposed as a human child, that unfillable cavern inside of him yawning wide.

The darkness was so dense that not even his immortal sight could pierce the veil of shadow, and it seemed to shut out all sound, even the echoes of his footsteps as he crept back. But the human man's face shone like a moon on a starless night, and the brown eyes were two craters - no, _tunnels._ Tunnels that a demon now looked out of.

"We have not seen one of your kind in a very long time," the demon said, and it's voice was the rasping sound of an asp slithering through the crisp autumn leaves of the forests around Mistward. "I wonder, how much pain and suffering have you seen in your unending, immortal life? I imagine it would be," it bared its teeth, and it was easy to imagine blood and sorrow dripping from them like poison from fangs, "exquisite." The demon looked ravenous; the same expression its kin had wore back in Wendlyn, when they'd been draining that demi-Fae to a husk in their cavern by the sea.

The same demons who had tried to destroy Aelin when they were back in Wendlyn; who had dragged her through her darkest memories and left her vomiting and shaking.

The memory made it very, very easy to lift his blade and slash it downwards at the creature, in a blow that was bound to send that eerily beautiful head rolling at his feet.

He grunted with satisfaction as the edge of the blade crunched severed skin and bone and arteries, and crimson blood spilled down the Adarlanian steel.

Then he froze.

 _Red_ blood?

Heart hammering in his throat, he studied the corpse beneath him. An unmistakeably feminine figure, with small white hand as delicate as lace lay sprawled across the ground. One of those tiny hands was flung out to the side as though it had braced for impact, the other had fluttered to rest on her stomach. A stomach swollen with pregnancy.

He stumbled back, the position excruciatingly familiar to him.

But he steeled his stomach, kneeled, and put the blade aside, where it rested in a pool of that scarlet blood. Then he gently took that severed head and rolled it over so the face was staring up at him, with unseeing blue eyes.

He twisted his head to the side and retched.

Screams rang in his ears; desperate terrified screams, and he could only discern one word amongst the sound: his name. _Rowan. Rowan! ROWAN!_

Because he knew the honey-soft hair that was matted with blood, and the empty eyes that stared up at him. The barely discernible splash of freckles; the straight, pert nose; the long, curling lashes - it was all painfully familiar.

Lyria's face stared up at him, her lips wan and pinched in death.

His mate. His mate was dead, and her child - his child - _their_ child - dead right alongside her.

He hadn't been able to protect them.

Rowan knew where he was meant to be the moment he looked up. The cosy walls of their mountain cottage were suddenly suffocating; the loving care with which it was tidied now a horrific reminder of the love now lost.

He knew what would happen next, and so he played the role he had played all those hundred years ago, where he ran out of the cottage, shifted into his hawk form, and rode the winds as far as he could, until the screaming still ringing in his ears was drowned out by the rush of winds, and the cries of other hawks.

He ran to adopt the part.

But he could not shift.

That hole in him - that gaping hole - wouldn't let him.

And he remembered why.

He wasn't in the lands of the Fae; he wasn't in their mountain cottage. He was in Adarlan, where magic had vanished, where he couldn't shift. He was in the catacombs below the Shadow Market, with his queen, and the rest of their court. He was in the Sin Eater's temple with the Valg.

 _Aelin_ was in the Sin Eater's temple with the Valg.

He unleashed a growl at the thought.

So he paused, and took a breath. It was just an illusion. Lyria had died decades ago. And it hadn't been by his sword. This was an illusion. Lyria was dead.

But Aelin was not, and if she was somewhere in these gods-damned catacombs, facing off against a Valg soldier on her own, then all the hellfire and bones and obsidian collars in the world couldn't keep him from her. _It's just an illusion._

Sure enough, once he reached that mind set, the image of a sunny mountain day faded away, back to the darkness from which it was born. He turned, but the darkness rushed past him like a gushing river, like ink caught in a stream's current, until it coalesced in front of him in an image of-

Aelin.

It was Aelin. Safe. No; not safe, but unharmed. Next to him. Walking the streets of Rifthold right alongside him, wearing that grin she always did. He was so relieved at that moment that he failed to notice what was wrong with the grin until there was a flash of black and gold, and Lorcan was behind her, gripping her elbow - a human elbow; so breakable - with his knife pressed to her throat.

Her eyes met his, beseeching. And that sent a sense of absolute wrongness flying through his gut. If the Valg demon was showing him his greatest fears, then it was understandable that seeing Lorcan threaten Aelin was there. The worry over his old commander's presence in the city had been gnawing away at his nerves for days until they frayed, and he'd been half tempted to shout at Aelin for putting herself in danger like that.

But looking at her now. . . that was not her. It was not her grin that had graced her features earlier, but a mockery of it. All laughter, no wickedness or malice. The Valg's piss-poor attempt at comparing Aelin to Lyria, not realising that they were two of the most different woman in history.

The flower and the flame.

And though this fragile woman being encased in Lorcan's arms looked like her, it was no Aelin. Because though Aelin might be scared, he would expect to see some semblance of anger on her features. And yet there was none.

The issue of this woman not being Aelin proved irrelevant, however, because it still hurt like a punch to the gut as Aelin opened her mouth to speak and Lorcan slit her throat like he was gutting a pig. It still hurt like Hell as Lorcan vanished, and Rowan fell to his knees, and he crawled over to the woman lying prostrate on the ground.

His mate's eyes stared up at him.

Not Lyria, he realised as he cradled her head in his lap. No; there wasn't a hint of doubt who he was looking down at. He was looking at his mate.

The fact that this woman - this strong, independent, _powerful_ woman - was his mate had never been so adamantly clear. And maybe it made him a damned fool for not realising it sooner, or for only understanding, truly, the depth of their bond until now, as he looked down at her broken corpse.

Because he felt that bond between them - the _carranam_ bond. Still there, still tethered to his heart, still taut - like there was something tethered to it on the other end. And beneath that. . . The mating bond. _Mate._ The word sank a sense of absolute rightness into his gut.

Aelin was his mate.

He wondered if she knew.

 _I'm not dead_. Came the voice, sliding like a bead down one of the threads. He wasn't sure which one, but he was sure it was the voice he thought it was as the speech continued, _Fight it. Do not let that rutting demon win._

He choked on a laugh. How could he not have seen it earlier? The carranam bond, the intense feeling of absence when they were on different sides of the ocean. . .

Sensing his pain and fear dissipate, the demon lashed out again.

The image changed to Aelin again, this time one plucked from his memories of Beltane, back in Wendlyn, when she'd almost killed herself with her own flames, and had boiled the water in the ice bath they'd put her in. The image of the scars on her back. Whip scars. That horrible realisation that when she'd reacted so violently to his threat to whip her. . . She hadn't been acting like a child. The scars had run deep.

But his eyes superimposed the image of the tattoos he'd inscribed on her back, her own story of love and loss, over the sight. And it wasn't fear or sadness that the sight tore from him, but the calm anger that told him that if she wanted him to, he would hunt down the monsters who'd done it, and rip them to shreds, but until then. . . he loved her enough to let her fight her own battles. To not intervene.

And there, at the back of his mind. . .

 _Fight it._

So he shut his eyes against the sight of his mate's ruined back, and looked down. Sure enough, his sword was on the floor where he'd left it. He crouched and picked it up. The hilt was slick with blood, but then he reminded himself it was an illusion, and it disappeared.

So he swung round again, and this time his aim was true as he decapitated the demon standing behind him, and black blood spurted from the stump of the neck. He stood there panting for a moment, then looked up at a flicker of gold in his vision.

Aelin stood in front of him. Sweat gleamed on her brow, her hair was a tangle of blood and silk, and she was breathing heavily. She had her weapons out, a hunting knife in each hand, and she trembled slightly, like she'd just run very far, very fast.

 _Mate._

He took a hesitant step towards her, and then he was striding, striding until he'd put both hands on her shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her.

She stiffened like a frightened doe, and understandably so - he'd done nothing but snap and scorn the idea of any romantic relationship between them. But now, when he'd seen her die. . .

He drew back slightly, and met her eyes. The uncertainty in hers was mirrored in his own.

But she wrapped her arms round his neck, and pulled him down to kiss him again.

He didn't know how long they stood there, losing themselves in the feel of each other, but after a while Aelin pulled back with a groan and panted, "As pleasant as this is, we've got two other idiots to save."

He leaned forward, and nipped her ear. She arched her neck at the feel of it, and he swiftly looked away, lest the temptation get the better of him. His voice was slightly hoarse as he asked teasingly, "Did you just call me an idiot?"

"Of course I did, buzzard," she replied, but a smile graced her lips. "You _are_ an idiot." She continued, but any dismay he might have felt at that was wiped away by the feel of his lips on hers.


	5. Assassins & Dragons & Queens

**Hello again! Here is a new chapter. I'm sorry it's shorter than usual, but there wasn't much to say about Aelin's fears, not after what she went through in HoF. We already know hers.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Throne of Glass. It belongs to the wonderful Sarah J. Maas.**

* * *

 _Darkness is my domain._

Aelin wondered if the others knew that she'd said those words to reassure herself as much as she had to reassure the others.

And it was only when that darkness started creeping towards her like a living thing, and she felt the horribly familiar brush of it against her skin, then she remembered: the darkness and the shadows were Celaena Sardothien's domain. Not Aelin's.

Aelin's domain was of fire and light. One fit for a Fireheart, or the heir of Mala Fire-Bringer. The very light needed to drive out the shadows the assassin had always been cloaked in.

She did not belong here.

And she hated the fact that she wasn't comfortable enough with her newly embraced heritage, not settled enough in this new character and name, that she made the mistake of thinking that she did. Hated the fact that she needed the repulsive, abhorrent touch of that darkness that was not of this world, but was _other_ , to remind herself of that.

She knew the touch of the Valg like she knew the stain of her soul.

So she closed her eyes, and didn't reach for her weapons, knowing that they wouldn't be any use against the demon that now haunted her. Knew exactly who she would see when she opened her eyes, as the scent of blood tickled her nostrils, and that deadly unfeeling calm that had descended on her that night was replicated. She wanted to retch at the violation at her feelings, but willed her knees not to buckle, and her back to remain rigid.

 _My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid._

And she wasn't, not as she opened her eyes and beheld Nehemia's cooling corpse lying there, mutilated almost beyond recognition. _It isn't real_ , she chanted even as she fell to her knees. _Fight it._

 _My name is-_

Her stomach roiled as she heard the sickening thud of a whip hitting the ground behind her. She didn't need to turn to know that Sam's face held hurt and betrayal as he raised the whip. She didn't need to turn to know that there were others snaking for miles behind him, a veritable army of the people she'd failed, of those she'd let down. Each waiting their turn to exact vengeance.

Exactly as they had been back in Wendlyn, when their faces had contorted and twisted in hate, until she accepted that their hate for her didn't in any way lessen her love for them. Until she'd bled at their feet.

But this time, there was more to the vision.

 _My name is Aelin Ashryver-_

Now sharp decisive steps clicked towards her. She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.

"Celaena," cooed a voice. She looked up to see Lysandra standing above her. But it wasn't the Lysandra she'd been working with for the past few days; no. It was Lysandra directly after Arobynn had bid for her virginity so many years ago with the money Aelin - Celaena - had used to settle her debts. The smug smirk fixed to her cheeks for the sole reason of slighting her, and the face, slightly less developed, and much less severe and solemn.

Aelin couldn't control her actions and snarled at her friend - enemy, rival, too many lines were blurring - like Celaena had done so many years ago. The courtesan tutted, and smiled wickedly, her painted mouth a blood red slash across her face. "So savage and uncouth," she purred. Her face hardened then, her lips pursed. "You and I are no more than beasts trapped within human skins." She clicked her tongue. "How on earth could we expect you to be the kind of queen Terrasen needs, when you're just a violent fire breathing dragon? Perhaps you can win the war," she intoned, "but how could you possibly help your country heal?

"We're both monsters," Lysandra kept talking, and her words were poison that flowed into her mind until she wanted to curl up in a ball and let her brain shrivel up into a husk for shame. "But at least _I_ am a good enough person to adopt Evangeline, and am still paying for that act of charity. But what have you done?" Her voice was suddenly velvet wrapped steel. "What have you done but kill and kill and kill since Lady Marion sacrificed herself for her country's - _your country's_ \- future?"

 _My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and-_

But the words settled in her gut, horrible and heavy and brutal with the sheer truth of them. Those dreams of being a healer she'd had as a child, those fragile dreams as combustible as paper when set to her inferno, those wishes. . . She'd hated her crown, even then, for shackling her. But she'd still loved her country, and all young Aelin had wanted to do was heal it.

But now, she was the worst gods-damned healer anyone could ever come across. Of course she was; she was far, far better at inflicting wounds than inflicting them. The best thing she could've done for her country was win the war for them, then pass on the crown to someone worthier of it.

And Aedion was there, behind Lysandra, looking at her like he had been looking at her since she broke him out of the castle. Looking at her when she was some sort of miracle, when she was the very essence of Hell itself. Like there wasn't already some place for her there. His face contorted before her eyes, and he snarled, "What have you done for Terrasen?"

She took a shuddering breath.

 _My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not-_

She was going to let them all down. Aedion would find out how severe and true the darkness in her ran, and when he did she cringed at the thought of the disgust he would exhibit, the palpable hatred. No one wants her around, not once they see the whole of her. Chaol had run, Nehemia had sacrificed her life to manipulate her into banishing that darkness, and she'd failed at that simple, simple task her friend had gifted her with, she'd failed so badly. . .

 _No._

The word was a ray of light amongst the shadows that had been gathering.

She was not alone.

Rowan had walked with her down that dark path. Rowan had seen every inch of her soul, had been inside her mind, and had not run. He had not blanched at the shadows and wickedness there, and had embraced it instead. Chosen to take the blood oath, to shackle himself to that darkness forever.

 _My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid._

She choked on a sob.

Rowan. Her carranam. Her. . . mate, though she had not told him, and would not tell him until the time was right.

He had been in the darkness with her, and they had gotten themselves out. Together.

And now if she was in the darkness again, then that meant he was too. He was probably experiencing the worst moments of his life, as she had.

 _No._

 _Fight it._

She wasn't sure if she was talking to herself or him, sending the message down their bond like beads down a string.

 _Do not let that rutting demon win._

 _Fight it._

She reached for Goldryn at her belt, and felt her fingers brush the hilt.

 _Fight it._

So she did.

She drew the sword, whirled, and sliced non-specifically into the darkness, half-grinning, half-grimacing as she felt it connect with bone and muscle, and black blood spurted like from a broken faucet.

Aelin gave herself a moment to let her human eyes adjust to the darkness, adjust to the cool moist air, and her pounding heart. The blood splattered up her cheek, and she did not move to wipe it away.

She started as a scream rang down the hall.

She breathed in, slowly, slowly, slowly. . .

She was running before she'd released the breath.

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 **What did you think?**


	6. Ribbons & Humans & Light

**So, I didn't get any reviews on the last chapter, which was a bit disappointing, but I tried to update as soon as possible anyway. Did you people just not like it?**

 **This will be the last chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own ToG. It belongs to the wondrous Sarah J Maas.**

* * *

The thudding of her feet was almost as loud as the pounding of her heart. It pulsed in her ears, in her throat, in unison to Goldryn banging against her leg at her side, and she shook her head as she rounded a corner, trying to form a coherent thought in her mind that wasn't about the Fae warrior hot on her heels. She knew he could easily outstrip her as they sprinted across the bone mosaics, but she also knew he felt an obligation to protect her, and that he seemed to think he wasn't safe if he couldn't see her. She wanted to snort at the thought, but she couldn't get enough air to her lungs in her human form.

Then they rounded another corner and Rowan veered to the left suddenly and fell behind. Aelin frowned slightly, a part of her worried at the sudden change of course, but then she felt the first scraps of the darkness ahead begin to curl about her ankles, and she ran faster. She refused to give the demon any more warning than necessary as she came barrelling down the passage to decapitate it.

The Valg had attacked her cousin, and her court. That was something she would not stand for.

She ricocheted off the wall as she turned another corner, never slowing in her momentum, but her wrist twisted viciously and she winced slightly as she kept running. Footsteps sounded behind her again as Rowan began to catch up, but they were significantly slower than before, like he was walking across a minefield.

Aelin snarled, long and savage, as she yanked her hand through the darkness like she was yanking aside a curtain. As her skin connected with it she heard screams, flashes of a body so mutilated she couldn't tell whether it was Sam's or Nehemia's. . .

But then the darkness parted for her, like her nails were talons that shredded it into ribbons of fine velvet. It fell away and she only took a moment to marvel at it before she was unsheathing Goldryn, and had slashed the ancient sword in a gleaming arc even as the Valg demon turned to face its new victim.

Blood spurted, bone crunched, and the head rolled.

She almost vomited at the sight of Aedion, eyes identical to hers empty and devastated as he looked upon her with nothing but fear and pain, and for a moment understood why Chaol and Dorian had been so unnerved the night Nehemia had died. When she snapped so sharply she had bellowed the words that had been slowly building in her throat until she could barely hear above the din.

 _You will always be my_ enemy _._

Then that boiling anger, that molten ore that swept into every cracked part of her and, when cooled, fixed them, flooded in then. Anger at the world for being made this way, anger at the King of Adarlan for associating with those bastards, and anger at herself for venturing down here with her court, and for suggesting they split up.

She grabbed Aedion's shoulder and hoisted him to his feet, mouth set in a grim line. He was heavy - a result of all the muscle he sported - and his legs trembled like rotting scaffolding when he tried to stand on his own, but she propped him against the wall until he stopped shaking, and the lost look in his eyes began to fade to rational thought.

When it became clear that he wasn't going to crumble the moment she let go of him, she gently disentangled her hands from his shirt, and stalked through the passages to find Chaol. Rowan had run on ahead, and she heard him shout from further down.

She ran there as swiftly as she could, and allowed herself for a moment to fantasise about being in her Fae form again, where miles were minutes, and each movement was precise and fluid. But she remained human even as she practically flew over the bones, her revulsion over touching them drowned out by her sense of urgency, and her ears were very much round when she came to a stop next to Rowan, to see Chaol on his knees gasping on the floor. Rowan grunting something unintelligible and hauled Chaol off to the side, where the rebel leader retched all over those artfully gruesome mosaics.

Aelin wrinkled her nose at the smell of vomit, but inwardly shared the sentiment.

Rowan was kneeling, and had his hand on Chaol's back in an unusual show of camaraderie that she had never expected to see between them. But then her Fae warrior glanced over his shoulder at her and his tightly pressed lips and gaunt face told her everything she needed to know: He could not bring himself to be snappy at any of them right now. Not after a violation like that.

Sometimes the thoughtfulness and awareness of her mate struck her hard.

 _Mate._

She rolled the word along her tongue like those chewy sweets Dorian had gotten her for Yulemas, that had inadvertently turned her teeth red.

 _Mate._

She still didn't know how to feel about having her suspicions confirmed. About how he'd reacted to the knowledge.

She was still turning it over in her mind as Aedion limped down the passage. His lips were still wan, and his eyes seemed permanently widened, but he carried several jars, which he handled with intense, focused care. A ray of hope began to light up that hole in her chest the Valg demons had sucked dry.

"I suppose it was you who found the hellfire, Rowan," Aedion croaked hoarsely, then carefully set them down at the Fae warrior's feet. "Well, at least we know that this venture wasn't all for nothing."

Rowan's face was unreadable, even to her, as he looked from Chaol, to Aedion, then his pine-green eyes scanned her from head to toe, then he glanced down the passage where sunlight leaked through like someone had ripped open a canvas tent covering.

He jerked his chin towards the light, and Aelin hid a smile, even as she helped to steady Chaol on his feet.

Even without that fire magic she'd relied on to vanquish the Valg demons back in Wendlyn, they had faced the darkness, let themselves change to fit the challenge, and triumphed.

There's was not a story of darkness.

Aelin wrapped the thought around her heart, and despite Chaol's dead weight dragging her down, she felt significantly more free as she stepped up into the light.

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 **What did you think? Please review!**

 **Thanks for reading my story!**


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